


A Small Comfort

by Shark_Blank



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Max and his nightmares, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 10:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7841845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shark_Blank/pseuds/Shark_Blank
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Max needs supplies, and he just so happens to be near the Citadel. But to the surprise of Furiosa and the Wives, he agrees to stay the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Small Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first piece of actual legitimate fanfiction I've written? I had the idea in my head, thinking "I should put this out there as a plot bunny, see if I can get someone to write it", but ended up writing it myself? It's not beta'd by anyone, and if it seems like its two fics slammed together it's because it kind of is.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy it regardless, I'm proud I actually wrote something this long, and not just like a poem or something.

Max’s dreams steadily got worse over the years.

This was hardly surprising. Given the current state of the world, bad dreams were more common than not. When he first started getting bad dreams, they were like any other. He would wake unsettled, but none the worse for wear. But as time went on, and trauma after trauma built up and he lost more and more, they evolved. After time, he would wake, thrashing, covered in sweat. Chest heaving, he would look wildly at his surroundings, trying to remember where he was, trying to ignore the voices. As such, he didn’t like to sleep anymore. Bad enough he was now experiencing the horrors while he was awake, worse to face waking up. He would stay up as long as he could, until he passed out from exhaustion. He still dreamed.

It has been about a year since he traveled down the Fury Road in the War Rig. A year since he met Furiosa and the Wives and helped them. He left afterwards, not sure if he could handle staying in one place for more than a couple of days. As he left, he had looked up at Furiosa, making eye contact with her even from so far away. Understanding showed on her face. A year now, a year of driving, fighting, scavenging, and trying so hard not to sleep. New faces joined in with those that had haunted him for years. Splendid, hanging to the War Rig, a step away from safety until her leg gives out, the leg he had shot. He sees her go under the wheels of the pursuing vehicle again and again, hears the other Wives’ pleas for him to stop and turn around. He even sees Nux, the fanatical War Boy who had used him as a blood bag. How just a little bit of kindness had shown him how much he had been missing, how much Immortan Joe had stolen from him.

He doesn’t regret leaving, but he now finds himself back at the Citadel. He just so happened to be in the area, and it was as good as place as any to stock up. As he nears the outskirts, he can see makeshift guard towers, sunlight blinking off of the binoculars held by the sentries.

Getting closer, he can see the flurry of movement his arrival has caused. People are waving their arms, grabbing weapons, yelling out messages and commands. A small group of men block his path, former War Boys, by the look of it. They are still clean shaven and thin, but are clean of the ghost white paint. He slows down the nearer he gets, until he comes to a complete stop about 10 feet from the small group.

“Show yourself!” The oldest looking War Boy yells.

He puts his car in park, shuts it off, and opens the door. He makes a show of keeping his hands visible the whole time, just in case someone gets an itchy trigger finger. He steps out, nice and slow, not raising his hands, but with the palms facing out, a sign of peace. The faces of the War Boys show a variety of emotions. Distrust, curiosity, unease, some even seem downright hostile.

Except for one.

One of the War Boys is looking closely at him, as if trying to figure out some kind of puzzle. He steps a bit closer, nearing the front of the group. Max looks at him, raising a brow. Recognition blooms on the boy’s face, and he grins widely, turning to who seems to be the leader of this small group.

“I know his face! It’s the Blood Bag, the one who helped Furiosa and the Wives bring down Immortan Joe-!”

The leader raises a hand, cutting off the excited chatter. “And you’re sure of this? How?”

The War Boy’s mood changes, excitement turning to embarrassment. He shuffles his feet and mumbles “Buddy of mine was hooked up to him after he got injured on a run. Went to visit, but he wasn’t awake. So I made fun of his blood bag until he woke up.”

Max is silent during all of this, brow still raised. As the others process what they’ve just heard, he sees them start to nod in agreement, whispering amongst each other. He hears his name, quiet against the sound of the wind. The War Boy looks at him sheepishly, and Max just shrugs back. The days blurred together in that cage, and it’s not like he was the only War Boy who mocked him.

Upon hearing this, the leader looks at Max appraisingly, and after a moment of silence, shrugs, signaling his group back to the watchtowers. As the others leave, he turns back towards Max, motioning him to follow. Sitting back down in his car, he starts it up and slowly follows behind towards the rock formations that make the Citadel. They move down worn paths, past huts and groups of people. The people they pass look better, if that is the word. Access to better food and more water has improved them, as much as their conditions allow. They talk and point, some recognizing the man who had come in Immortan’s own Gigahorse, Joe himself strapped to the hood. They reach the cliff face in no time, and Max parks his car in front of the large metal lift that carries vehicles into the rock. Getting out, he follows the War Boy onto the platform, and after a signal from the man next to him, it starts to rise.

 

Furiosa had had an interesting year. After taking down Immortan Joe, she has become the new reluctant leader of the Citadel. It was hard at first, no surprise there. What with how the War Boys reacted, the retaliation from Gas Town and the Bullet Farm, and improving the conditions for the Wretched, she has been busy 24/7.

Finally, though, things seemed to be falling into some kind of place. While still hectic, systems had been established. People had been given jobs, and were doing them well. The former Wives had taken to calling themselves the Sisters, each one finding her own niche in the system. While at first wanting freedom for only themselves, they all of a sudden found themselves responsible for bringing freedom to so many. They were pleased with this though, and took the responsibilities of keeping these newly freed people happy seriously. They often spoke of Max, wishing he would have stayed to help them make this town something better. Furiosa thought of him every once in a while, wondering where he would have fit in in all of this, if he would have fit in at all.

Today had actually been fairly quiet. After her rounds of checking in with everyone in charge, she had made her way back up into the auditorium, the large opening in the rock face looking out over what she had created. She was going over inventory; food, weapons, guzzoline, medicine. As she looked over the numbers indicating an ever improving supply of food, she heard a pair of footsteps on the stairs. She looked up at the sound, seeing one of the lead sentries leading a very familiar person.

 

* * *

 

 

Furiosa woke with a start. Getting her bearings, she sat on her bed, waiting to see what exactly had woken her up.

There. A muffled grunt, close to becoming a yell, comes from across the hall. When Max had shown up yesterday, the Sisters (as they had taken to calling themselves), had offered him a room to stay in, across from hers. She was surprised he had accepted her offer, half expecting him to say that he would be leaving after loading up with supplies.

She got up, carefully wrapping a blanket across her shoulders with her one hand to protect against the chill of the desert night. Walking to the door, she pushed it open and stood in the doorway, listening. A smaller muffled noise comes from behind the closed door, and she can now hear him shifting restlessly on the bed. She continues to stand there, unsure of what to do. What urges her forward is a long, low groan. It sounds like it’s torn from his throat, full of agony, and she knows she has to do something.

She crosses the hall and puts her hand on the handle, relieved when it turns freely in her hand. The full moon shines through the window, providing ample light to see by. And what it shows her is a mess.

Max is splayed across the bed, the single thin blanket tangled in his legs. His one hand is pressed to his forehead, like she has seen him do before when in the throes of a flashback, his face shiny with sweat. His other arm is across his stomach, fist clenching and relaxing rhythmically. His breaths come in ragged gasps, and as she stands there, the hand on his stomach suddenly lashes out at something unseen, coming back to his stomach just as quick. His legs shift some more, tossing his head back and forth, and he grunts out the word “no”. To what he is denying only he will know, but the amount of pain in that single word gets Furiosa moving to the edge of his bed.

She knows she has to be careful, even just walking up to Max can be a tricky thing when he is awake, given how twitchy he is. She knows he will lash out blindly, violently, when he is pulled from whatever hell his dreams have taken him to. She carefully lowers herself to the bed, one foot on the floor, folding her other leg under her, ready to spring back out of his reach. She loosens her hold on her blanket, freeing her arms to counter any punches he may throw.

“Max.”

He groans, hand still on his forehead, his face turns away from her.

“Max.” She says again, a little bit louder this time.

Another grunt is all she gets. She decides to risk it. Keeping her one arm up, she puts her hand on his arm.

The effect is instantaneous. He raises up suddenly, eyes flying open, wild and unseeing. The hand that has been resting on his forehead shoots out at her, but she is able to block it with her raised arm. She springs up to standing position, the hand that had been put gently on his arm turning to a vice grip. They are like this for a few moments, Furiosa standing over Max, one hand gripping his arm, the other one pressing up against his forearm with what is left of her own. His eyes bore into hers, and he snarls, sounding like a wild animal. She stares back, and responds to his growl with one of her own.

“Max.” A third time, spoken low and harsh.

A glimmer of recognition, his brow furrows as he slowly starts to register what is going on. She continues to hold her stance, until slowly but surely, she can feel him start to relax. They keep looking at each other. Furiosa keeps her stare open and soft, showing him she isn’t a threat. His eyes start to dart over her face, taking in her features, and his brow furrows in confusion.

“Furiosa?” Low, in that voice that sounds like gravel.

She nods, loosening her grip on his arm, now rubbing the spot lightly where she had been gripping. He looks around the room, and she steps back a little, taking her other arm away from his now that he is no longer going for her throat.

“You woke me up, came over here to see what was going on.”

Max looks away from her at that, almost as if he were ashamed. It might be shame. She has seen him have flashbacks, saw him startle awake from that nightmare while in the War Rig all that time ago. But this was something more, more visceral, more vulnerable. He looks down where her hand rests on his arm.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

She actually grins at that. She sits down on the bed, facing him.

“There’s no need to say sorry.”

He continues to avoid her gaze, and she sighs a little in exasperation.

“Hey, look at me.”

Finally, his eyes come up to meet hers. They’re red, but there is no evidence of tears on his face. His brow is still drawn together, his face still slick with sweat. After a few moments, he registers the amusement on her face, and his expression changes to that particular look of irritation he seems to specialize in. He makes that grunting kind of “hm” noise, questioning her.

“You’re not the first person I’ve had to wake from a nightmare. Immortan Joe may be dead, but he is going to feature in the girls’ nightmares for years to come.”

His brow smooths, and he nods in understanding. He looks down her hand again, clearing his throat in what is quickly becoming awkwardness. She pulls her hand away, still sitting facing him, waiting to see what he says. His eyes dart around the room, and she can see him going over in his head trying to decide what to do. He fidgets a bit, scratching the back of his head before glancing at her quick.

“So, um, when you help the girls with their nightmares. You stay for a bit, I suppose? Um, make sure they fall asleep?”

She nods, even though he isn’t looking at her, and hums an affirmative. He starts to fidget some more, shifting where he sits on the bed. She sighs for the second time, causing him to still. She holds out her arms, and the movement draws his eyes to her. He raises an eyebrow in question.

“Come here,” she says, once again keeping her expression open and soft, inviting.

He suddenly looks suspicious, but after studying her expression, his face softens as well, and he scoots forward. She puts her arms around his shoulders, her one palm coming to rest between his shoulder blades, and rests her chin on his shoulder. He’s not exactly rigid, but she can tell it’s been an age since he’s gotten a hug of any kind. She slowly starts to move her hand in a circle where it lays, and he soon relaxes. Resting the side of his head against hers, his arms come round to loosely circle her waist, and he hums deep in his chest. She figures that with all that he did to help her and the Wives, even if at first it was begrudgingly, he deserves this small act of kindness.

She moves her hand from his upper back to the back of his head, ruffling the uneven hair on his head, including that silly cowlick that won’t stay down for nothing. He hums again, and if it became regular, she would say he was purring.

“Feeling better?”

He hums again. She grins, deciding to take that as a yes. She continues petting his head, and she can feel the tension slowly leave his body. He is starting to actually lean on her, and she has a feeling that if she keeps this up, he’ll fall asleep sitting up. She moves her hand from his head, and starts to push him upright.

“Mmmno,” is the disgruntled response.

“Yes,” is the reply, and she slowly pushes him down onto the bed.

He lies there, looking up at her, and she brushes her hand across his forehead, touching the scar where the bolt nearly killed him.

“Get some rest now,” she says. She then yawns, she has no idea how long she’s been in here.

He nods, and turns on his side, back facing her. His breathing quickly evens out, telling her how exhausted he is. She stands up, grabbing the blanket where it has fallen to the floor. Taking one last look at Max, she leaves, glad to know that at least this one night, he won’t have to worry about what awaits him when he dreams.


End file.
